THE THRESHING FLOOR
Slender stalks of
wheat tan under the Indian sun as the soft air whistles between them. Clouds
of spikelets fly overhead – frozen in mid-air and gently blanketing the earth
as they descend.
Tonight the farmer
comes to harvest his work. He swings his mighty sickle, holding it by his
waist as he grabs for handfuls of his precious stalks. Sweat drips from his
brows. Palms redden and ache. Each stalk was carefully sown. Each stalk was delicately
made. Every bundle stored inside his barn.
But as the breeze blew,
yellow spikelets sprinkled the ground. Some scattered between the leftover
stalks; others were carried away with the wind, but none were of any worth.
With several logs
under his arms, the farmer begins to stack the wood atop the chaff. He places a
burning coal underneath and watches the smoke wrap around the logs like a snake
choking its prey. As dusk descends, swelling flames of red and
orange wave atop the chaff crackling and spitting until all was
consumed.
